


The Dead Prophet Manifesto

by Siriuslyserious



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: M/M, Past Relationship(s), Sort of..., Soulmates, takes place around five years after the show, ur about to see how much I love ellipses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:54:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22091374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siriuslyserious/pseuds/Siriuslyserious
Summary: “I think we’ve known each other for a long time, our souls,” Aang says. He thinks back to the dragons, so long ago now. Moving in step with Zuko, the serpents encircling each other, infinity resting in the space between them. “I think mine wants to go home,”
Relationships: Aang/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 69
Kudos: 634





	The Dead Prophet Manifesto

It feels like he’s walking through water, being back here in front of the fire, dry bone clasped between his fingers. He’s twelve again, the weight of the world moulded into his skin, excitement trembling behind his ribcage. 

As he hands Aunt Wu his chosen bone and watches her toss it into the flames he finds the same childish question he had asked so long ago stuck behind his teeth. 

The cracks snapping through the bone are less violent than the first time. No longer filled with visions of carnage and vicious fear. The bone warps and splinters down the center. Aang can see the layers of cartilage being licked by the flames, a hissing sound, thick and foreboding. 

Aunt Wu slides the bone out and places it lightly between her fingers, scanning the cracks with her eyes. Her pupils are blown wide in the dim light, a dark sea, never ending. 

When she speaks it sounds hazy, as if Aang is floating just under the ocean’s surface. 

“I see great love coming to you,” her voice is soft, almost fond, “This is someone you have loved many times before, in many different lives. You would have felt, from the moment you met, a sense of connection, an inherent need to keep them safe, protected.” Aang’s mind naturally shifts to Katara. Aunt Wu’s eyes meet his. “This Love will come in the last place, the last person you expect. Trust your heart and listen to your soul, it will lead you home,” 

  
  


-

  
  


Katara’s slim fingers tug at her mother’s necklace, flipping the pendant between them. An obvious sign of turmoil, Aang had noted long ago. Her gaze is locked ahead, there’s a deep crack in the ice just off shore. 

“Aang…” her voice, what usually sounds like a steady stream slipping over stones, is now a single droplet sliding down a jutting rock, falling and bursting on the earth below. “We were so young…” 

There are stagnant icebergs framing the horizon. They look small, lonely. Aang wonders if he could reach out and touch one, if they feel the same as he does. 

He traces the outline with his finger. 

  
  
  
  


He goes and he keeps on going. The moment he stops to rest, the murky swamp of memories will envelope him. Force its way past his lips and make a home deep in his lungs. 

He is air, free, unconcerned with material matters, with matters of the heart. He is the wind, leaving behind what no longer serves him and drifting off to somewhere new. He is air, he does not feel, he does not feel. He is air and nothing can hurt him as he floats beneath the clouds. 

Freedom, the taste is bitter. Every breath he lets out burns his tongue like acid. 

  
  


-

  
  


He raps on the door, three quick knocks. A voice from within calls out to enter. Aang turns the overly ornate knob and pulls the heavy, dark wood door aside. 

He stands near the entrance, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. Zuko is bent over a long scroll, the end of his ink brush is resting against his lips.

“What is it?” Zuko calls out, his voice is stern, authoritative. 

“You know, I can never take you seriously when you talk like that,” Aang says, a grin parting his lips. 

Zuko’s head snaps up, eyebrow raised. 

“What are you doing here?” Zuko asks, clearly flustered, a sight Aang revels in. Then, with a slight shake of his head, “Wait, when I talk like  _ what? _ ” 

Aang’s grin widens, “Oh, when you use your, you know, Firelord Voice,” 

Zuko’s face scrunches up like a ball of wet clay, an indignant noise caught in his throat. 

“I do  _ not…”  _ Zuko starts, cut off by Aang’s bout of barking laughter.

Aang walks over to the plush maroon dais and drops himself down, pulling his legs up and crossing them under himself. 

“Not that I’m not happy to see you, Aang,” Zuko says slowly, “But why exactly are you here?” 

Aang’s smile remains on his lips but it turns sour. He looks down to his fingers, tugging at the tie of his sash. 

“Katara…” The name feels like scalding hot water rising in his throat, “She, well, broke up with me,” his voice is far too soft, he can barely hear it himself. 

There’s a distinct, palpable silence. Aang can almost hear Zuko blink rapidly. 

“I just thought I’d come here and… I don’t know,” Aang’s hands fall to his lap, “I don’t know why I’m here, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be bothering you with this,” 

“No, it’s… okay,” Zuko’s voice is composed and cautious, like he’s coaxing a wild animal. He hasn’t moved since Aang sat down. His ink brush is on the edge of slipping through his fingers. “I’m sorry, Aang, about… Katara, I mean,” He says, with as much care as Zuko can express. 

Aang wants to laugh, Zuko always looks so constipated when he’s trying to console. Like someone’s twisting a knife in his abdomen. 

A rumbling giggle starts in Aang’s chest, shaking violently against his rib cage. It bursts out of him and, somewhere in his mind, he’s aware it’s bordering on manic. 

  
  


-

  
  


“What did it feel like? After Mai left?” Aang lets his question fill the silent air around them, he doesn’t even bother to level the husk of emotion in his voice.

“What?” Zuko stops his teacup just before it reaches his lips, lowering it back down to his lap before sighing deeply. “Aang… I mean, I don’t know. That was... forever ago,” he says, his head tilted down to stare into his cup. His fingertip is skimming along the painted rim. 

_ Forever ago,  _ Aang thinks. Really, it’s only been a few years but Zuko’s always had the disposition of a forty year old. 

The sun is setting above them, a violent orange reflects off the turtle-duck pond in front of them. 

“It’s like… it’s like a piece of my heart has been misplaced. Not gone, not ripped out and bleeding, just… shoved around to somewhere new,” Aang starts, his voice coming out on its own free will, like he’s in a dream, like none of this matters. 

Zuko turns his head and glances up at him, his eyes shine with something, understanding? Confusion? 

“My soul doesn’t feel like it’s torn in half,” Aang says, eyes stuck ahead. The turtle-ducks are swimming lazily around the tinted water. Like red hot magma, it looks like they’re floating through fire. Zuko shifts beside him, Aang can feel his gaze turn away. 

Maybe Aang could lean forward, slip into the pond. Maybe he could get burned up by the flames. 

  
  


-

  
  


_ The night sky tunnels around him, the heavens closing in, trapped between the ground beneath him and the thick blanket of scorching stars above. _

_ Flames tower before him, angry, reaching to the edge of the earth. They’re whispering to him, a hollow voice, empty like the eyes of a madman.  _

_ The flames part and from the depths slithers a sinewy blue dragon, its body curls against the darkness. A voice echoes around him, far away, bouncing off the shell of the sky, then, suddenly, right against his ear.  _

_ “There is corruption in us all, bile builds thickly in the deepest chambers of our hearts. With each brittle bone pressed tight against your skin the acid rises. One day it will burn right through you, eat your still-beating heart from the inside and swallow you whole.”  _

  
  


Aang awoke, a desperate gasp forcing the dense summer air into his aching lungs. He sits up, eyes wild, searching the room for danger. The shadows leer at him from the corners. Serpent bodies melding together, slipping along the ceiling, big golden eyes looking through his skin, into the marrow of his bones. He blinks, it’s only blackness. 

He slides out from the bed, bare feet against the polished wood floor. He feels like an animal locked in a cage, his heart is spreading, heavy, crushing beats fill his chest, his abdomen, down his legs. He needs to leave, to walk. He needs to feel the air against his skin, in his lungs. The air, his home, his soul gasps for it. 

  
  
  
  


He finds himself outside, looking up at the balcony off of the Firelord’s suite. A figure is hunched on the floor against the iron railing. 

He spins in place and floats up, landing easily against the rail. The figure snaps it’s head up as Aang reaches it. Familiar eyes meet his, blinking in surprise before turning away again. 

Aang climbs over the bars and settles onto the floor across from him. 

Zuko’s eyes refuse to meet his, cast off to the side. A swathe of black hair lays against his cheekbone. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” Aang asks, something dark slipping into his voice. 

For a few moments there is no response, in another world Zuko watches the ground below. Aang turns his head out to the open night. There are apple blossoms drifting along the courtyard, Zuko’s eyes look tired. 

“Bad dream,” Zuko says, his voice slow and achingly quiet. It reminds Aang of the desert sand when it sifted in the wind. 

“Me too,” Aang responds, he glances at the sky. The stars shine down at him, they look so very far away. “Gyatso used to say that dreams are the portal spirits use to communicate with us. Nobody really knows why we dream at all, where they come from or what they mean. He told me that when we sleep our soul opens itself and, without all the blocks we put up while awake, spirits can insert themselves into our subconscious to give us messages. I could never decide if that was cool or creepy,” 

Zuko shifts slightly, Aang turns to look at him. He’s tugging lightly at the hem of his sleep shirt. 

“Will you… will you tell me about them? About Gyatso and the Air Nomads?” Zuko’s voice is tight, trembling on the thin edge of trepidation. 

Aang looks down at his hands, fingers woven together in his lap. 

“What about them?” He asks, lightly.

“Anything,” Zuko tips his head down slightly, hair obscuring part of his face, one of his eyes. 

_ Anything,  _ Aang thinks. Stories of Gyatso fill his mind, sunlit days and crooked, teasing smiles. His heart feels like wet paper in his chest. 

“Every morning we would wake up just before sunrise,” He begins, allowing his head to tilt back and rest against the metal spindle behind him, “We’d meet on the mountain plateau facing the east and begin our first meditation-“ Aang let’s himself get carried back to a different time, the first rays of the rising sun stretching softly across the earth, the ringing of bells echoing off the mountain faces. 

He tells Zuko of his daily routine of so long ago. Minuscule things, the typical menu, his favorite games to play after lessons were through. He tells him of his classmates and his instructors, the arrangement of his bedroom and the few items that filled it, his favorite meals and how laughter would inevitably fill the dining hall despite the more austere monks’ disapproving looks. 

He talks until Zuko’s head falls back against the rails, his eyelids weighing down slowly. He talks until his own eyes fall closed and he is no longer sure of what’s coming out of his mouth. His voice fades out eventually, a gentle whisper breaking on his lips, carried away by the breeze. 

  
  


Aang wakes as the sun rises and the palace’s empty halls fill with the chatter of morning birds. With a vicious ache in his neck he sits up and reaches a hand over to wake Zuko. He is slumped against the balcony railing like the village drunk on a doorstep. His hair lays like two silk curtains on either side of his face. Aang brushes his fingers through one side, tucking it gently behind his ear. 

  
  
  
  
  


Over his stay at the Royal Palace this becomes their nightly routine. At sundown Aang makes his way to the balcony overlooking the courtyard. Zuko is always there before him, gazing placidly out towards the sky when he arrives.

Through the nights, Aang has filled the quiet with stories of his life before, of his old friends, of Kuzon and Bumi and their borderline delinquent antics. He tells Zuko of the world before the war, of the Fire Nation in its peaceful days, of all that has changed and grown through time. 

He tells Zuko of Gyatso, his laughter, like the bells ringing through the temple halls, his guiding hand firm on Aang’s shoulder. 

And Aang finds that it’s like a heavy stone is lifted out of the base of his heart with each story he tells of his master. The memories of Gyatso are no longer shrouded with such a thick staunch of black smoke. 

Zuko rarely speaks, content to listen to Aang’s voice until sleep pulls him under. 

  
  


As they sit tonight in their newly founded safe haven Aang watches his companion softly. His hair is down, the crown of the fire lord removed from his head for a few short hours. Duty means everything to Zuko, giving his whole self to his responsibilities, an admirable trait but a heavy burden. 

“Tell me a story,” Zuko says, as he has every night. His eyes are closed, his head resting back against the rails. 

“I’ve told you lots of stories,” Aang replies, amusement in his words. “I want to hear some of yours,” 

Zuko’s eyes open curiously. He looks away from Aang, his arms cross in front of his chest. 

“I don’t have any stories,” He says, petulance thick in his voice.

“Now, Zuko,  _ everybody _ has stories,” Aang replies.

Zuko turns his head to face the open air. 

“I don’t have any good ones,” He says, eyes downcast. Aang briefly wonders how a person could even see through the cloud of pessimism and gloom that Zuko keeps himself shrouded in. 

“So, nothing good has ever happened in your life?” Aang says, brow raised. 

“ _ No, _ ” Zuko says, stubbornly, “You already know most of my good memories, you were there for them,” The second half of his sentence is significantly quieter than the first but Aang hears it all the same. 

“So, tell me the ones I wasn’t there for,” Aang says, a softness leaching into his voice. The air around him feels thicker, like he’s wading through sun-warmed water. 

Zuko remains silent, he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. His incisor is crooked, only slightly. Aang never noticed before. 

“I…,” Zuko starts, a strained uncertainty resting in his throat. “I was close with my mother, before she left,” 

“Tell me about her,” Aang prompts.

Zuko’s eyes shift to his lap, eyebrow dragged tightly inwards. 

“She’s dead, or, well,  _ gone _ . it makes me sad talking about her,” He says, pragmatically. 

“Gyatso’s dead, it makes  _ me _ sad talking about  _ him _ ,” Aang replies, tone mirrored. Zuko meets his eyes, something heavy ebbed into them. He turns away again, a resigned sigh shooting loudly out of his nose. 

“She wasn’t like the others, she was… kind and gentle. She was a good mother, she…  _ cared _ about me,” He trails off, eyes distant. He’s somewhere very far away. 

And Aang wants to ask what happened to her, why she disappeared like plumes of ashen smoke reaching the dark corners of a room, wants it desperately. But he swallows down the thick weight of his questions, burying them behind his ribs. A safe spot to hold them until the time is right. 

He lets Zuko speak of soulful, soft eyes and loving caresses. Memories with gold-trimmed edges, for so long locked in a tight box at the back of Zuko’s heart. 

  
  


-

  
  


They landed on a grassy hill just as the sun began its natural descent towards the earth. They walk in a soft silence, Aang’s feet are bare. The softened dirt hidden beneath the grass presses into his skin. 

Aang had actually managed to convince Zuko that his nation would not in fact collapse if he left the remainder of his paperwork for the morning. 

_ “You work too hard, Zuko,” Aang quickly holds up his hand as Zuko opens his mouth to protest, “And yes, I know, your job is very important and you can’t take leisurely time for yourself because a nation depends on you, blah, blah,”  _

_ For that, he receives a heavy glare. Aang returns with a bright smile.  _

Zuko’s gaze is down, watching the ground disappear under his feet. 

The sky surrounding them is turning a gentle pink around the edges. Aang watches Zuko’s dark hair move, tickling against his cheekbone. His scar. Smooth pink melding into rough maroon. It looks like the sunset forming just beyond him. 

Aang comes to a stop, turning out to the open fields below them, the sky is hazy, touching the edge of the earth. 

“Zuko, look at the sunset,” He says to his companion, still walking, already a few paces ahead of himself. 

“I’m right here, what else am I looking at?” Zuko replies.

“Yes, but you’re not  _ looking _ at it,” He hears Zuko stop and knows, intuitively, that he’s rolling his eyes. “There might never be a sunset as beautiful as this ever again for the rest of time, and you just walked right past it,” Aang says, glancing at Zuko from the corner of his eye. 

Zuko mutters a few things under his breath that, Aang is sure, fall below the Royal Class standards for polite speech and walks back to stand at Aang’s side. 

“There, I’m  _ looking _ at it now,” Zuko says, arms folded over his chest. A fond smile curls up Aang’s lips. 

  
  
  
  
  


“I think I knew you before, you know? In another life,” Aang says. They’re on their backs, the sun long gone, the stars draped around them. Aang is idly flicking soft bursts of air at a fallen leaf, forcing it up in the air only to fall back towards him. 

“Oh?” Zuko says flippantly, he’s a foot or two away, his arms folded behind his head. 

The sky above them is encapsulating, a vibrant dome. To Aang, it looks alive. Gyatso once told him that the stars don’t move, only we do. He doesn’t know. They look like they’re flying.

He hears Zuko shift against the grass. 

Aang thinks he’d destroy the Milky Way to get to him. Tear the sky open and let it drown the whole world. 

“Yeah, definitely,” Aang replies. He lets the leaf drop to his chest.

  
  
  
  


He doesn’t know when it happened, a month ago? Back when the world was crumbling beneath them and their only contact involved ropes and flames? Before they were even born? 

He doesn’t know when he let himself reach into Zuko’s chest. Peel back his skin and burrow between his ribs. 

Maybe he’s always lived there, maybe that’s his home. Nestled against his rising lungs and beating heart. 

They are opposite halves of the same whole. Two fish encircled beneath clear water for all of eternity. 

  
  


-

  
  


“Do you remember the forest, after you captured me from Zhao?” Aang’s voice comes out cloudy, like he’s standing off in the distance. They’re perched on the balcony, there’s a heavy breeze against his back. “When I asked if we could’ve been friends, if things were different,”

Zuko’s head raises, his eyes widened, emotions malleable in his gaze. Fear. There’s a resistance, a plea raised to the surface. 

“Yes, I do,” He says, voice heavy. 

Aang looks down to his arm resting against his folded knee. He traces his fingernail along the light blue ink running over it. 

“I wanted you to say yes so bad, to give up hunting me and…” Aang meets his eyes, “I saw so much good in you, I could feel it. When I sat with you there, while you were out, I felt…” He doesn’t know how to put it into words. That feeling, warmth, comfort. Care. Like he wanted to grab Zuko tight and hold him until he saw, until he saw the good Aang could feel so strongly. How he always feels with him. How he feels right now, with Zuko across from him, their feet almost touching. 

Zuko is silent for a moment, eyes unblinking. 

“You felt what?” His voice is soft, only to be shared in the air between them. He sounds afraid.

“I felt… like I was so close to being whole,” He’s not even sure if that makes sense, if it even matters. 

“What does that… mean?” Zuko asks, small, soft, a timidity heavy on his tongue. 

“I think we’ve known each other for a long time, our souls,” Aang says. He thinks back to the dragons, so long ago now. Moving in step with Zuko, the serpents encircling each other, infinity resting in the space between them. “I think mine wants to go home,” 

He lifts his eyes to Zuko’s, he knows those eyes well. He’s looked into them a thousand times. Through the flesh and the blood and all things human that form them there is an ethereal light. Aang has seen that light, has touched it, held it. With different hands in a different time, he has loved that light. 

He shifts closer to Zuko, the air between them the thrumming energy before lightning strikes the earth. He places his palm against Zuko’s cheek, stroking lightly with his thumb, there is no rush. 

He leans forward and Zuko meets him. 

Their lips find each other and Aang thinks this must be what gods feel like. 

They pull apart slowly. Their foreheads resting against each other. 

“I think I love you. I think I’ve loved you for a long time. I think I’ve loved you even in death,” It comes out muffled, weighed down by the palpable energy sticking thickly to their skin. 

“...oh” Aang hears softly, Zuko’s lips brushing against his cheek, his hand comes up and grabs Aang’s arm tightly. Desperately. A plea. 

“Do you… feel it too?” Aang asks, whispered lightly against Zuko’s skin. “What I feel with you?” It’s cosmic, a supernova taking place in the hollow of his chest. 

“Yes,” Zuko breaths, there’s a heavy weight stuck to the word, a flood gate breaking under the weight of years being held tightly closed by fraying ropes. “Spirits, Aang. It’s you… it’s  _ you _ ,” 

“It’s me,” Aang replies. 

He pulls back slightly to look into Zuko’s eyes, dazed, clouded over with vibrant emotions. 

And Aang knows, in that moment, that even when the earth crumbles and falls beneath their feet, when the sun disappears behind the horizon for the last time, he will hold no fear in his heart because as he looks into those eyes he can see the stars shining as bright as they always have. 

  
  


-

  
  


They’re laid out in the grass, backs against the earth, fingers clasped together between them. 

The night sky is open before them. It looks bigger than usual. More infinite. 

He can hear Zuko’s soft breathing, feel his pulse under his hand. He smiles, softly. 

Aang lifts a finger and traces lines between the stars. 


End file.
